‘I Looked Up to See a Young Man With a Handlebar Mustache’

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Dear Diary:

After my daughter was born, everything felt hard. Even my quaint Brooklyn neighborhood began to sour for me. The stuffed raccoon on its hind legs in the coffee shop window, the plant store with only four plants, the fedora shop: It all seemed like a kitschy Hollywood back lot.

One day, I dragged my daughter in her stroller to a local sandwich shop where the sandwiches have clever names. Looking for comfort, I ordered the one simply called Meatloaf.

“Your baby is beautiful,” a man’s voice said.

I looked up to see a young man with a handlebar mustache, a big smile and a tattoo encircling his neck like a shawl.

“Thanks,” I managed to say from within my fog while trying unsuccessfully to soothe my crying daughter.

At first, my sandwich — a slab of meatloaf slathered in a tangy sauce on a roll the size of a Nerf football — seemed like another test I would fail. I took a bite, then another. Then I devoured it.

“What’s the secret?” I asked the young man as I ordered a second sandwich. I felt hungry for the first time in weeks.